Garden Shadows

It lives internally, this calling breath, this intuition; as less to facts, this inner grimace, as running through velvet meadows; to cry this ark, seeking for bawling, this magnet heart. I saw us crawling, while forked at roads, enduring this twilight; to sing of mercy, as changed in titles, this forest of prayers. I loved as mental, this recognition, while distant as seas; this perfect effusion, prior to chaos, where mothers agree to pardon. I can’t forsake, this wind immortal, while seasoned a digestive spirit; where souls are tugged, as time to futures, this pendulum seeping into brains.  I fathom loss, this inner cross, trickling into whirlwinds; as born again, while fevered to exist—this bliss as kissed in seconds: that fume of love; that fragrance of actions; where souls resurrect.  We have to live, as pulled asunder, feeling through introspection: this lively art; this perfect soul; as steeped in Zen traditions; where passion is law, this thing of nuisance, as to shift to change pursuits: this welcomed voice, as deep meditation, to know by sights this wealth of truths; or more experience, as never to speak—of chimes seeping into legends.  It had to live us, this fabulous exchange, while terrified deeply; to have such feelings, this incorrigible love, as egregious as Job’s sin; to die perfection, as grinning in woes, to find for days a slight injustice: this mark of targets, as swollen with pride, where earth affects a sullen thought: this crime of ways, as distant to touch, where something screeches internally; but more the esoteric, this vest of heartbeats—those drums as tribal as forgiveness; to see for stars, this blind confusion, as creeping near flames; to die so young, an addict by grades, flickering for falling into mischief.  We must suffuse, this wave of grandeur, peering at God’s jurisdiction; while owls are weary, peeking at daylight, at tears to fathom our nightfall; this marvelous soul, a bit psychotic, fleeing through depressions; as feeling heavy, despite those rubies, where curiosity plagues contentions.  I loved a choice, trekking through traffic, where life becomes cosmic: this deep incision, as painted in smoke—our years as torrent volcanoes.  I drift this return, as feeling emotions, this mind as strong as tenets; to move a country, while gripping a finger—this baby a grown woman.  It could be ours, this welkin sin, where others linger in silence; or it could be ours, a house of children, as we flurry in guilt: this marvel of days; this wretched night; those graves haunting our attics; but what to pains, this deep attachment, where our souls gravitate—this mission of arts, as carted in woes, while cuffs abandon our futures; for this is life, these links within, to know a soothing voice; that body of tattoos, as literal agendas, speeding through mother’s addictions: this crime of tears, too heavy to confess, where love writhes in agonies; but this is life, a child and wife, searching for falling into Yoga: this powerful force; as claiming eternal; where souls forge islands: that electric arc; while filtered in grays; as sought for science this love.  I wanted more, aside for education, to race by feelings this captivation; as charged to live, while dying in parts, to cook for adventures; this gravid feeling, at peace with patience, while time proves its curse.